


a novelty

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 04:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19099435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: “You ought not do that,” Javert says eventually, the words slurring slightly on his tongue.Valjean glances up at him, despicably amused. His lips are red, slightly chafed. “Why not?”“Because you are drunk,” Javert says, and licks his lips. “And I am drunk. And furthermore, it is not dignified.”





	a novelty

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I've been writing things other than PWP but like. I've also been writing a lot of PWP

By the time the fiacre bears them from the party at the Pontmercy estate and deposits them outside of Valjean’s address on Rue de l’Homme Arme, Javert has come to the understanding that he is rather extravagantly drunk. His face hurts for no discernible reason as he stumbles into the kitchen on Valjean’s arm; or perhaps Valjean is on his arm. Not much of anything is entirely clear to him at the moment, but as he focuses with some effort on Valjean’s flushed and grinning face, the idea presents itself that Valjean is quite inebriated as well. And that they have likely been quite incautious, clinging to each other like idiot youths as they made their way to Valjean’s door—God knows what they were doing in the fiacre, for he already can’t remember. 

Still, they are alone now. Valjean’s housekeeper has long since gone home; he is standing, swaying, in front of this ridiculous man with his soft eyes crinkled at the corners and his cloud of white hair, and Javert knows he is ridiculous too, but he does not mind so much.

Valjean’s smile widens, and his hand rises to Javert’s face. “You look very fine like this.” 

It’s only when Valjean’s fingertips touch the corners of his mouth that Javert realizes he’s been smiling—grinning like a taxidermied wolf, in point of fact. No wonder his cheeks ache. 

“Your flattery earns you nothing,” Javert says, capturing Valjean’s fingers in his own; and yet he tugs Valjean towards the bedroom in spite of that assertion, for after a life bereft of indulgence it seems he must now indulge Valjean in everything. 

It is only when Valjean has pushed down on the bed and flopped gracelessly between his legs that it occurs to Javert that they are going to have sex. This, he is still not fully used to; he does not particularly want to be. He enjoys the way his body still sparks like a lit fuse as Valjean’s strong hands run up his thighs. Valjean presses his smile to the bulge in Javert’s trousers as if it is some fond, dear thing, and Javert’s tongue is too thick to trap the sound which escapes him. For this—this is something he has had no opportunity to grow accustomed to at all.

His head flops back, boneless; he forces it to rise again a moment later, to pair a visual to the entirely novel sensation of Valjean’s open mouth smothering him with kisses, the hot panting of his breath on Javert’s cock through the barrier of his trousers. 

“You ought not do that,” Javert says eventually, the words slurring slightly on his tongue.

Valjean glances up at him, despicably amused. His lips are red, slightly chafed. “Why not?”

“Because you are drunk,” Javert says, and licks his lips. “And I am drunk. And furthermore, it is not dignified.”

“Well, if it is  _ dignity _ you insist upon—” Valjean says as he clambers up Javert’s body, all elbows and knees and nose and chin, to kiss Javert in the vicinity of his mouth. Certainly there is nothing dignified in this, either; and yet they go on like that for a time. 

It should be enough. Except there is something about the kiss which seems an echo of what Valjean’s mouth had been doing to him, before. And it must be the wine sitting heavy and satisfying in his veins, but Javert cannot seem to ignore it.

So he pulls back. “Are you still thinking of it?” 

His voice comes out softer, more breathless than he had intended. Valjean for his part looks in no better state, his eyes glazed and half-lidded, cheeks colored, hair a mess. A sight like that Javert could hardly be expected to resist. When he leans in to kiss Valjean’s open mouth he feels and tastes the mumbled sound of affirmative Valjean makes.

Javert pulls back again, just a fraction, and clears his throat. “Well then. Perhaps you ought to try it. So you can be certain that you don’t like it, and put it from your mind.”

“You’ve done such a thing for me. Many times.” Valjean’s lips slide down his jaw, to his neck. “You seem to like it.” 

The breath which tears itself out of him could certainly resemble a whimper, were Javert sober enough to categorize it. He has more important things to think about in the moment—such as Valjeans’ mouth moving down his neck, down to his collar where Valjean has long since fumbled open the upper buttons of his shirt and tugged away his cravat; Valjean’s mouth moves onto the plane of his shirt, and at once the sensation of his kisses grows more muted and more acute as a result. By the time Valjean reaches his stomach Javert’s breath hisses through his teeth and his spine arches against the mattress.

Valjean glances up at him again. If his mouth were not pressed to the hard curve of Javert’s hip through the fabric of his clothing, Javert might suspect him of grinning rather smugly. And yet if the price of what Valjean is presently making him feel is Valjean’s self-satisfaction, well, that is no price at all. Trying to keep his breathing steady, Javert folds an arm beneath the back of his head so he might watch as Valjean settles between his legs at last. 

He kisses the bulge of Javert’s trousers, which has grown even more demanding in the interval—and Javert can scarcely believe he is allowing himself to watch this, the sight of Valjean’s white head bowed over his need, kissing up and down its length through the dampening white of his evening trousers. They will be quite ruined, surely—no matter how thoroughly they are washed after this they will always carry the imprint of Valjean’s mouth against his cock. Javert thinks this must be the most obscene sight he will ever be permitted in this life: but then Valjean’s fingers are fumbling at his buttons, and the hand he presses over his own mouth comes too late as he watches ( _ feels _ ) Valjean nuzzle against his bare flesh and presses a kiss to its head.

“God.” Javert’s toes curl within his stockings, his fingers digging into the sheets. If he focuses on that—the cotton bunching against his palms, the roughness of Valjean’s modest bedding, then perhaps he might hold off long enough to avoid embarrassment. He closes his eyes—forever sealing away the image of Valjean mouthing at his cock with that expression of focus he wears while turning his attention to a long-neglected flower bed, for he will not permit his alcohol-muddled memory to lose it—but it is barely enough. 

He is more than close. He is on the precipice, and it is crumbling beneath his feet, a weakened section of a cliff-face at last sliding into the sea; inevitable and irresistible, happening slowly at first and then faster and faster as the weight of his own pleasure drags him after it, and it is all he can do to hiss out a sharp warning, his fingers groping to squeeze Valjean’s shoulder, before he is plunging, falling, crashing against the rocks below, every nerve in his body raw and alight as he spends in Valjean’s mouth. 

Vaguely, he is aware of several things: of the rustle of a handkerchief produced, of Valjean tucking him back into his trousers and then shifting up his body to lie beside him. His mouth, pressing to the underside of Javert’s jaw. He turns on impulse, a flower to the sun, not thinking of where Valjean’s mouth has been until he hears Valjean’s faint noise of surprise and tastes the bitterness on his tongue. Javert pulls back, blinking—but it seems such a petty thing to stop him from kissing Valjean when he wishes to, so he presses forward to kiss him again. 

“I believe,” Valjean says against his lips, “that you may have liked it as well.” 

At which point Javert must marshal his loose muscles back into action, so he might show Valjean precisely how right he is. 


End file.
